


HOPE

by semi_sweet



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Churches, Dicks, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, HAPPY BIRTHDAY PLATINUM, Journalist!Patrick, Like, M/M, Murder, Religious Imagery, Serial Killing, a cop thing, a penis, bit o'angst, butt stuff, can u get pregante?, cop!pete, detectives doing detecting, except the journalist does all the heavy lifting, half-hearted attempts at humour, holp I'm pregenat, how to tag?, like irl, patrick's the journalist, pls proceed with caution, ritual killings, some pregnancies, there's some sick shit here guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 20:36:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13795845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semi_sweet/pseuds/semi_sweet
Summary: Some papers had big, fancy office buildings. Then again, some papers were actually relevant. The Chicago Sun-Times was little more than a conservative rag cooped up on the third floor of a tower-block filled with equally irrelevant businesses. Pete felt almost empowered as he strolled out of the elevator and into its gloomy headquarters.There was a pretty girl at the desk. Light brown hair, pouty lips. Probably sharper than him, mind.“I’m looking for a journalist. A specific one, I didn’t wake up with a craving.” The look he got in return was half-expectant, half-impatient. He just stared back in silence.“Well, I’m gonna need a name.”“Wentz.”“There isn’t a Wentz here.”“No, I’m Wentz.”“I need the journalist’s name…” he could practically hear the dumbass she silently added in her head.“Oh… Stump.” Like a fucking tree. Suited him.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------In which Pete is a cop, Patrick is a journalist and ritual killings are a thing.





	HOPE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PlatinumAndPercocet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumAndPercocet/gifts).



> (one, two, three)
> 
> Happy biiiirthday to youuuu happy biiirthday tooo youuuu ahppy birthdayy dear platinum happy biiirthday tooo youuuu
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ayyyyy this is a mess but i have snitches' approval so here ya GO I hope you like it!

“Nice…” Pete rolled his eyes at the sarcasm lacing his partners voice, “just the sort of place I wanna spend my Saturday evening, really, charming l-”

 

“Will you  _ shut up _ for one second? Please?” He snapped, his temper finally getting the better of him. As if he wanted to be here himself. This wasn’t exactly a hobby of his, he could think of much better things to be doing than breaking into an old church. 

 

Patrick tutted pointedly but did, in fact, shut up. A small blessing, at least, even if not for long.

 

“How the fuck do we know he’ll be here anyway? Like, you literally have nothing to go off? Were you just like ‘the nearest church will do, this is fine’ in the hope of catching him in the act?” Basically, yes. That was pretty much exactly what Pete’s thought process had been. He wanted to go with Patrick’s neat theory about the saints, but frankly, he had no idea what the kid was talking about. He didn’t grace the question with an answer, though. Just as well, then, that the flimsy little lock opened with a  _ click _ and the gate squealed on its hinges as he pushed at it. 

 

“Ugh, fucking great…” Patrick muttered, “way to go out, murdered in a creepy-ass church in the asscrack of Chicago.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


“So what you’re saying is, you have no idea where to start?”

 

“What I’m saying is, it’s none of your fucking business.” Pete hissed when a boot met his shin underneath the table. All he heard over the chattering that had suddenly filled the press room was Hurley muttering “ _ Sun-Times, _ ” to him. He bit his lip and tried again, looking  the blond in the first row, sitting with his legs crossed pointedly and looking way too powerful, right in the eye. 

 

“The nature of the crime makes this investigation a particularly sensitive one. We need to proceed carefully if we aren’t to offend or hurt anybody in the process of finding whoever did this and why. Which is why we are taking small steps.” PR 101. Why The fuck didn’t he have somebody actually qualified doing this for him?

 

“Ah, okay, you have no idea where to start, got it,” the journalist muttered and scribbled something in his little notebook. Pretentious twat, using a biro and a notebook like this was 1990. Pete tried not to scowl. “ _ Drop it _ ,” Andy hissed.

  
  
  
  
  


He just caught him on his way out. “Hey, dude, hey, wait!” The journalist stopped and turned on his heel, inspecting Pete from behind horn-rimmed glasses. Dickhead. 

 

“You gonna publish that?” The guy shrugged. “If there’s room for it, I dunno, do you think  _ Head of investigation cusses journalist who asks him if he’s doing his job _ makes for a good headline? It’s a working title.” Pete couldn’t help but scowl that time. 

 

“Oh come on, you know how press conferences work. Talk shit get hit. By bad publicity.” He was too confident, too cocky, who the fuck was he anyway? Pete had never seen him before, had he?

 

“Publish that and I’ll sue.”

 

“Fine by me. Name’s Patrick Stump, paper’s Chicago Sun-Times, see you in court, Wentz.” The way he just casually turned and left, backpack slung over his shoulder, made Pete’s blood boil.

  
  
  
  


“OKAY, so, Tanya Klaus, I want literally everything you can find on my desk by 8pm, I don’t give a fuck how irrelevant it seems to you, time is key and we now have the press on our asses!” Pete commanded as he stormed into his bit of the precinct. There was some grumbling from Trohman cooped over his desk in the corner, but otherwise, everybody was way too intimidated by him at this point to argue back. 

 

“Hurley, pull up anything on a  _ Patrick Stump _ you can, please. ASAP.” 

 

Andy frowned at him. “Why?”

 

“Because I asked you to, now, get to it.” He was pretty glad he had his own little space at the back of the office, a room of sorts, separated from the rest by thin walls with big windows, blue curtains always drawn over them. He could kick his feet up and have a smoke without anybody bothering him, all the while passively googling ritual killings. Because that was what they were dealing with. Either that or Hannibal Lecter, either way, it was a somewhat disturbing notion.

 

Ritual killings rarely came alone.

 

Patterns were rarely distinguishable after just one case.

 

That was the perversion here, that was what he couldn’t tell Patrick fucking Stump from the Chicago fucking Sun-Times. They needed somebody else to die.

  
  
  


“Wentz.” Pete glanced up at Andy who had appeared at the door. 

 

“It’s Pete, you moron.”

 

“I’m never sure when you’re grumpy.” He shut the door behind him and walked up to the desk, taking Pete’s mouse from him and calling up his own file in the database. Pete watched as he scrolled down the list of case files from the last five years until he came to a sudden stop.

 

_ Edwards _ .

 

Hope Edwards. The name still made Pete shudder. Andy opened the file. Something was niggling around at the back of Pete’s mind, something uncomfortable. That case had never added up, it had never made sense, it was like one of the pieces belonged to a different puzzle. 

 

“That him?” Pete’s mouth dropped open at the man staring at him from the screen. 

 

“Patrick Martin Stump, 25 at the time, 28 now, victim’s boyfriend, questioned as a suspect, but there was a lack of evidence and a lack of motive so he was released pretty quickly. You remember him?” Yeah, Pete remembered him. So the face did look familiar. It was just quite a bit slimmer now than it had been two and a half years ago. 

 

“So what does he have to do with this?”

 

“He’s the journalist. The blond, snappy one.” Andy frowned. “Sun-Times?”

 

“Yes.” And Pete understood why his colleague let out a groan of frustration.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Of course it was dark and cold. Of course. If you were following a psychotic murderer, why not let it be into an old, crumbling church filled with eerie paintings and disturbing sculptures? The only sound was that of two sets of footsteps echoing off the vaulted roof and bouncing off the walls, making it sound like there were millions of them. Hopefully that made it harder for them to be pinpointed. 

 

Patrick was wearing an expression that suggested he had a bad smell under his nose and - obviously - no fucking armour. If he had to follow him around, couldn’t he at least wear something to protect himself? At least he had the common sense not to be making snide remarks. 

 

The further they paced into the, admittedly rather sizeable, church, the more nervous Pete grew. What if this wasn’t the right place? What if he’d got it wrong again and somewhere at the other end of the city, another girl was dying because of him? Because of his mistake? Could he handle it, one more soul on his conscience? One more person he’d failed?

 

A hand reassuringly squeezed his shoulder and Pete turned to see the glint of blue eyes in the moonlight seeping through the stained glass, sparkling with encouragement, a silent  _ you can do it, I believe in you _ and Pete nodded before taking another step along the nave.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“So what do we have?” Pete half-heartedly poked around in the damp soil at his feet. They’d made him wear those gross latex gloves that made him realize the human body should not be exposed to such tight restrictions every single time. Seriously, who’d come up with the idea of hand-condoms? 

 

“If you could not mess up the scene…” Ugh. Fucking Saporta. 

 

“So, this is on her way home, apparently the last person to see her was the lady that lives in that house at the end of the street, at like… 11pm. Your lot checked it out and, well… the dogs picked something up.” Pete waited pseudo-patiently, not wanting to fall for Gabe’s stupid act of suspense. He did this every time. 

 

Finally, he caved. “Yes? And?”

 

Saporta smirked. “Not much, just a scent. But there was a ring.” Pete stared in annoyance at the plastic air-tight bag being suddenly dangled in his face. He snatched it from Gabe. It was a plain, silver band. Not exciting to look at, but very exciting indeed to Pete, who stood up and held it against the light. 

 

“It has something engraved, couldn’t read it properly, have it examined at the lab, maybe? Anyway, we’re covering the area right now and-”

 

“Thanks!” Pete interrupted, hastily shoving the evidence into his pocket exactly the way he shouldn’t as he took off the ridiculous suit he was made to wear and finally removed the gloves.

 

Joe was waiting by the car. 

 

“Oh, Joey boy, we have something!” Joe did not look amused.

  
  
  
  


Some papers had big, fancy office buildings. Then again, some papers were actually relevant. The Chicago Sun-Times was little more than a conservative rag cooped up on the third floor of a tower-block filled with equally irrelevant businesses. Pete felt almost empowered as he strolled out of the elevator and into its gloomy headquarters. 

 

There was a pretty girl at the desk. Light brown hair, pouty lips. Probably sharper than him, mind. 

 

“I’m looking for a journalist. A specific one, I didn’t wake up with a craving.” The look he got in return was half-expectant, half-impatient. He just stared back in silence.

 

“Well, I’m gonna need a name.”

 

“Wentz.”

 

“There isn’t a Wentz here.”

 

“No, I’m Wentz.”

 

“I need the journalist’s name…” he could practically hear the  _ dumbass _ she silently added in her head. 

 

“Oh… Stump.” Like a fucking tree. Suited him.

 

“Hang on.” She reached for a phone, dialled and waited. And waited. And waited. Pete impatiently shifted his weight from one foot to another and wished there was something more interesting than a white wall to stare at.

 

“Patrick, there’s a guy here for you… yeah, for you… no, he’s not… actually, just let me check.” She turned her attention back to Pete “Are you a stripper?” What? What the- Pete couldn’t even say  _ no _ before she was back on the phone, “no. Yeah, no, his name’s Wentz? I think? Just come out, please.” She smiled politely, even if it didn’t reach her eyes. Pete was just thinking about digging out a lame pick-up line when the blond bombshell himself appeared, looking rather dishevelled.

 

“What?” he snapped. Wow, Pete was prepared for some more teasing sarcasm, not a downright attitude. 

 

“This.” He slapped the newspaper down in front of the journalist, pointing to the headline not all that dissimilar from the one he’d been threatened with the day before. Stump just shrugged. Pete was not happy.

 

“I told you, you print this, I sue you.”

 

“Fucking sue me, then, coward. I’m just practicing my journalistic duty to inform the public. And if you’re not doing your job, they need to know. So sue me or fuck the fuck off.” Usually, Pete would be shocked by a stranger talking to him like that, he really would, he’d probably pull rank on them. But with this guy, well… he kinda understood it. He just sighed.

 

“I’m gonna let it slide for now. Don’t cross me again, you hear me? And next time you swear at me, I’m arresting you.” Stump scoffed defiantly, but bit back whatever snide remark was sitting on his tongue nonetheless. The kid was learning.

  
  
  
  


Pete had brainlessly been staring at the same patch of ground for what must have been over an hour. Jesus, he really was losing his mind. Slowly but surely. There was a terribly familiar and a terribly uncomfortable feeling in his gut, the one he always got when he sensed a dead end. The little plastic bag with the ring was clutched in his right hand, the inscription making little sense even now he knew what it said. 

 

_ 2309 _

 

“I don’t get it!” He was too dumb for this job.

 

“Dude, just ask? Ask her family?” Pete shot Joe  _ a look _ . Joe shrugged at Pete. 

 

“You’re way too complicated.”

  
  
  
  


Pete hated this bit the most. Admittedly, probably everybody hated this bit the most. This was when it became real and the guilt set in, that was, as long as you didn’t suppress the fuck outta that shit. Pete was good at repressing stuff.

He rang the doorbell once, twice…

“I don’t think anybody’s home.” Joe sighed heavily and pressed the bell again. And, of course, the sound of footstep immediately reached their ears, along with low voices and-

“You.” Stump – annoyingly – looked less like a deer caught in headlights and more like a kid in a sweet shop.

“Me!” he declared with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

 

“My job, same as you, I presume…” Stump looked him up and down quickly before his eyes flicked back up to meet Pete’s. “Do it well,” there was a sudden earnest in his voice, something that made Pete a little too uncomfortable.

“Obviously.” Stump looked like he didn’t believe it. He said his goodbyes to the woman with the tissue and the dead eyes, a look Pete knew all too well, and pushed his way past the two officers. Pete grabbed his arm.

“Don’t go snooping around,” his tone was as close to threatening as he could get. Something glinted in Patrick’s eyes, something equally threatening.

 

“Look,” Pete tried to be semi-calm, semi-patronising, “I know why you hate me, okay? I know you blame me for what happened with your girlfriend. And I get it, I see how you wouldn’t understand how tough it is for us to find these people, I know you need somebody to blame other than yourself.”

 

Stump looked like he was about to pass out. Either that or smack Pete’s teeth out. Maybe both. For the longest time, he didn’t say a word, just held Pete’s gaze with a raging fire in his eyes that teetered on the bridge between burning out and burning up.

 

When he did eventually open his mouth, his voice was so calm it threw Pete off. “I don’t trust you to do your job. I’m the only backup this family has, so how about you let me go right now or I’ll run a nice little story about physical assault. And don’t threaten me with legal action, we both know who’d win.” Shit, he was too good. Pete sneered at the journalist, but let him go. Stump rolled his shoulders, pushed his glasses back up his nose and strutted off.

 

Beside him, Joe let go of a long breath. “Talk about sexual tension.”

Pete’s heart stopped.

 

He threw Patrick a glance, but he’d already cottoned on, creeping behind one of the pews, gun clasped firmly between his hands. Pete couldn’t imagine he’d ever use it, not Patrick, not kind, empathetic Patrick. Would he? If he had to, would he? A part of him didn’t doubt it for a second.

As quietly as he could, he crept closer to the altar, clearly illuminated by cold light bleeding in from above. There were skeletons in glass cases decorating the walls either side of the stone table, watching him with hollow eyes.

 

There was something grotesque about the way a crying girl flooded Pete with relief. If she was crying, she wasn’t dead.

 

Their killer had his back turned, he couldn’t see Pete coming. He could take the risk. He could just shoot him, here and now, and pray to god his bullet didn’t hit Nora. He lifted the pistol, hands shaking just a little too much for him to take aim… fuck, he needed to take aim!

“Pull that trigger, she dies.”

It was too nice a day to be finding bodies. It was one of those beautiful, early-autumn days, where the leaves were starting to turn golden and the sun was high in the sky, warm save that faint chill of winter creeping in. Nobody should have to spend it looking at corpses.

The call had come in half an hour before, young girl, early 20s, dead. Except, this time she wasn’t floating face-down in a river. And this time, Pete might be able to spot a pattern.

“Alright, let’s get this over with…” Of course, Joe grumbled.

 

Something caught his attention, something in his peripheral vision. Pete spun round in search of what had disturbed him, only to see…

 

“I told you to stay away!” Stump ducked behind one of the pillars. “Dude, seriously, this is a crime scene, get out!”

 

“It’s not a crime scene without a journalist, Wentz! As far as I know I’m allowed to go up to the yellow tape!” Who the fuck did he think he was? Seriously, who the fuck did this stuck-up twat of a journalist think he was?!

 

“Joke’s on you, there’s yellow tape across the door!”

 

“Joke’s on you, there’s not!” Pete glanced towards said door. There wasn’t any tape across it. He hated Trohman.

 

“Look, I just don’t want there to be more families with no answers. I have a lot of the pieces nobody would ever give a cop. I’ll give them to you if you stop getting in my way. You show me yours, I show you mine, so to speak.” Pete held his stare, almost as though they were challenging each other, except Stump was a little too relaxed for that to be the case. He did have one point though and that was that he would, indeed, make for a useful asset.

 

Pete sighed in defeat. “Okay, you’ve got yourself a deal. But the second you start obstructing things or getting in the way of this investigation, I will send you packing.” Stump shrugged.

 

“Fine by me. We can pinky promise if you want.”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“Where’s this corpse then?” Insensitive. Fucking insensitive. Pete shook his head and gestured for the journalist to follow him.

 

“Saporta! I’ve brought you a guest.” Gabe looked absolutely and utterly done with him when he looked in their direction. “Don’t get in my way, blondie.” Stump had the common sense not to speak back.

 

“No pictures, yeah? And I should warn you, it’s… it’s disturbing.” Pete had seen a lot in the last 10 years. Too much, almost. This was the worst. Stump just shrugged.

 

“I’m a journalist, Wentz, I’ve seen some disturbing shit, I’ll be fine.”

 

He put on the stupid suit and the stupid gloves the way he was instructed before being let through onto the other side of the ominous yellow tape. The body was on the other side of the altar. Everything within Pete was fighting against him taking one more step towards it, he’d seen enough to scar him for a lifetime, but it had to be done.

 

It still looked just as horrific. He kept his eyes fixed on her face, not wanting to let them travel any lower. He glanced at Stump. He was white as a sheet.

 

“You okay?” There was no response. “Told you it was disturbing.” No response. Just wide-eyes and ragged breaths. Pete lowered his voice, took out the harshness and the bite. “You wanna go outside?” Stump nodded weakly. “Okay, come on.” Gabe rolled his eyes.

  
  
  


The first thing Stump did when he was back out in the fresh air was empty the contents of his stomach in the bushes next to the pavement. Pete pulled a face at the smell and the sound of it. The journalist looked grey and sickly, like he was close to death himself. He was shaking like a leaf. Part of Pete wanted to make a snappy remark, drop some witty comment, but he knew how the little guy felt.

 

“Do… do you wanna go home?” Stump nodded weakly. “Okay, come on, where do you live?” No response. Pete put a hand on his lower back and gently pushed him towards the car, opening the passenger door for him and lowering him into the seat. He slid behind the wheel himself.

 

“So? Where do you live?” He just frowned down at his hands, his mouth dropped open but didn’t make a sound. Pete sighed. “Okay, my place it is.”

  
  
  
  


Pete woke with a start. It was dark, unsurprisingly, save the light that seeped through the glass door to his balcony. Wait, his… his balcony… why was he sleeping on the couch? Pete sat up and looked around the room, trying to figure out what was going on when… Oh. yes.

 

Stump was sitting outside on one of the shitty plastic chairs, feet kicked up against the banister, cigarette hanging between his lips. Pete knew by the smell which they were.

 

“I took one of your cigs. Hope that’s okay.” No, not really. Pete made himself not snap at the journalist and plucked it from the fingers offering it to him. A car blew its horn below as Pete inhaled the smoke. 

 

“Didn’t know you smoked,” he commented as he handed it back to Patrick. 

 

“I don’t,” he replied weakly before putting the Marlboro Red back between his curved lips. Pete dragged his eyes away from him. 

 

“You doing okay?” Patrick shrugged and huffed out a mouthful of smoke. “I know it was pretty upsetting, maybe I should’ve… not let you s-”

 

“She was pregnant.” Pete frowned at the journalist who still hadn’t once looked vaguely in his direction. 

“What?”

 

“Hope. She was pregnant when she went missing. Thought it was cold feet at first, but…” he drew at the cigarette again. 

 

Oh.

 

Oh, now Pete understood.

 

“Is that why you were so upset? When you saw…” Patrick nodded. “Just made it a little too real, y’know. I mean, I… I never really saw her dead, it was just… just a pile… those bones could have been anyone’s you know?” Pete didn’t know, but he tried to look reassuring anyway.

 

“D’you think… d’you think she was scared? When she died, I mean.” The poor girl had been buried alive, she’d almost certainly been scared. Patrick didn’t need to hear that, though… a little white lie wouldn’t hurt.

 

“She was probably unconscious. Wouldn’t even have noticed…” He knew Patrick knew he was lying and he knew the little smile he got for his lie was more gratitude for telling it rather than anything else. 

 

“I’m sorry I uh… I ran that headline, I just… you’re right, I needed… needed somebody to blame.” Pete sighed and looked out over the city. That beautiful, horrible city. He suspected they were all the same. Patrick held out the cigarette to him again and he plucked it out of his fingers, taking a deep breath und a lung full of poison. It was self-destruction on the finest level.

 

“You should go back to sleep…” Patrick muttered “I can take the couch now if you want.” Pete shook his head. “I’m awake now.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

A serene silence fell between them, interrupted only by the sounds of Chicago. Patrick looked pretty in the warm light shining up from the street. 

 

“I really do want to help,” he insisted, if weakly, “I don’t want anybody to have to feel like… like this.” He gestured at himself.

 

“Okay,” Pete finally gave in, “okay, we can work together on this.” Patrick smiled. A small, cute, sad little smile. “Thank you.” When Patrick took the cigarette back, he lingered just for a second.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Let her go,” Pete summoned his most authoritative tone, “let her go and come with me and let’s sort this out once and for all.”

 

“And then what? I get to rot in jail? Rot in your stinking jail while the world falls to pieces?” He spoke so quietly, like a ripple of water against Pete’s waterfall. No, like the river he spilled into. How poetic. 

 

“You’ve killed people. Innocent people, you’ve butchered them. Don’t make it one more.” Pete could see the tip of his nose over the shoulder, so his head must be turned to the side, away from his victim. 

 

“They weren’t innocent. Not a single one was innocent. That’s the point, none of them are innocent.” Pete took a deep, steadying breath, trying to keep his calm. He wasn’t good at this, he wasn’t good at any of this. 

 

“That’s not for  _ you _ to decide! It’s not up to you! Let her go, step away from her!” The sound of a blade being unsheathed echoed through the church and Pete heard a terrified cry. He couldn’t let her die, he couldn’t. Four names. That would be four names on gravestones because of his failure.

 

“STEP AWAY OR I SWEAR I WILL SHOOT!” he roared, blood pounding in his ears, finger tightening on the trigger. He won’t hit her. If he stops shaking he won’t hit her, he won’t, he won’t, he won’t, he won’t…

 

“Why only the women?”

  
  
  
  
  
  


“The fuck is the journalist doing here?” 

 

“Joe, this is Patrick Stump, Patrick, this is-”

 

“Your worst nightmare, you fuck.” Joe yodelled from his spot at his messy desk in the corner below the window. Patrick waved his middle finger at him and that was that.

 

“Andy. Nice to meet you,” Andy warmly shook his hand, kind and polite as ever. 

 

“This is Frank, Ray, Jon and that in the corner over there is Butch. You’ll mainly be working with me, but… just formalities, y’know?” He then turned to address his team. “Patrick’s a journalist, meaning he’s pro at snooping around and getting at information and that kinda what we need at this point. So a warm welcome, please and that includes you, Trohman.” Pete glanced at Patrick, who was smiling warmly and it was honestly contagious. He only noticed he was staring when Patrick’s eyes fell on him and his friendly expression turned more into lightly amused. 

 

“Uuuh, yeah, my office?” Pete led the way to his little, glass room at the back and Patrick waddled in behind him, not quite managing to shut the door before Joe’s “Use condoms!” made its way to them.

 

Pete hoped Patrick wouldn’t notice. 

 

He sat down on his fancy boss chair and kicked his feet up onto his equally fancy boss desk, meanwhile offering Patrick the old armchair in the corner. 

 

“So, uh… what’ve you got?” Patrick chuckled, “what do you  _ want _ ?” Oh, that good, was he? That he thought he could give Pete anything his heart desired…

 

“Anything that the vics might have in common, I dunno… Tanya Klaus and Dinah Fischer, age, family, friends, lifestyles, gym, favourite food, I don’t know… do you have anything?” The smirk on Patrick’s face indicated that he did, in fact,  _ have something. _

 

“Oh baby, you’re in for a treat.”

  
  
  
  


“So folks! All ears! We’re onto something!” Joe wasn’t the only one grumbling when Pete blazed back out of his office, Patrick right behind him. “Patrick here had some rather useful information…”

 

“Yeah, bet he did.” Okay, that one was Joe. Pete ignored it. Patrick winked at him. 

 

“So, thing is, we figured this is a series of ritual killings.” Again, not only Joe grumbled this time. In fact, if Pete wasn’t mistaken, Joe was the only one happy to finally be able to tick ritual killing off his odd little bucket list. He tried not to question it. 

 

“Hear me out, really, you remember the rings? The ones Saporta found? Those numbers, they’re dates.”

 

“There’s no 23rd month, Wentz,” Frank yelled from by the printer.

 

“No, but there’s a 9th month. And a 23rd day in that 9th month. It’s day, month. Like in Europe.” A ripple of low voices spread through the room as the realization hit. Patrick was smiling to himself. 

 

“That’s not the best of it. Guys! Come on, September 23rd! October 2nd!” Literally the entire room was raising its eyebrows at him. Everybody except the journalist at his side. 

 

“No wonder you’re not getting anywhere,” Patrick muttered, before stepping further into the room. “It’s the dates they were killed. This is some… some weird gift, maybe, it’s something like a purity ring, the same plain silver, the same, simple design, crafted for a little finger, except it’s not a purity ring. It’s the exact opposite.” Pete couldn’t help but be impressed by how well Patrick worked the room, how well he held attention, how good he was at this.

 

“It’s not a purity ring. None of these women were virgins. See, none of you dug deep enough, you all read  _ dead girl in her 20s _ , nothing abnormal an didn’t read the fine print. Dinah Fischer was pregnant, we all… we all know that. But do you know Tanya Klaus was, too?” A smile twisted Pete’s lips as he watched every forehead in the room crease in confusion, “well, she was, that is. Until September 19th.” 

 

It was Ray who understood first, unsurprisingly, really. 

 

“She had an abortion.” 

 

“That’s the one.” Patrick was now leaning against a desk, shirt sleeves rolled up, legs crossed. Pete tried not to stare. 

 

“How do you know this?”

 

“Her mom told me. I mean, your pathology may have picked up on it if they’re any good at their job at all, but I know because I visited her family home, I told them how sorry I am, I told them I understand what they’re going through and I wanna help, made them tea and, bingo. Wasn’t exactly a challenge.” Frank and Andy looked impressed, nonetheless.

 

“Okay, so… where does the ritual come into play? Is this some pro-lifer?” 

 

“No,” Pete spoke up, “can’t be, Dinah still had the kid. But I’m sending Patrick to speak with her boyfriend right now, maybe he can get something useful.” Joe didn’t seem convinced.

 

“What if he just takes the information and runs? He’s a journalist…”

 

“And it is my job to find out the truth, same as you, but  _ I  _ do it for the public, not my ego.” They were all the same, journalists all thought they were saving the world with a few printed words. Or,  in most cases, worst on a computer screen. 

 

“We can need all the help we can get, Joe. I hate to say it, but Patrick’s our guy.”

  
  
  


“What?” Pete asked.

 

“What?” the guy asked.

 

“Why only women?” Patrick repeated, “you’re killing all these people, why only the women? I’m assuming you’re doing this for the whole sex outside of marriage thing, right?” Pete shot Patrick a look that hopefully conveyed  _ shut the fuck up _ , but if he saw it, he ignored it.

 

“It takes two to tango, right? And let me guess, you have no proof other than pregnancy that these women are being… whatever you wanna call it, ungodly or some shit? Dude, why? It’s not 1563 anymore.” He was calm. He was utterly and completely calm.

 

“Bastard children, all of them. Better off dead.” Something in Patrick’s jaw tensed and he took half a step forward. Pete’s heart stopped when the man pointed a gun at him. Patrick froze on the spot.

 

“STAY WHERE YOU ARE!!!” Patrick’s hands were up, showing he wasn’t going to attack. Pete glanced at his watch. It had been five minutes since he’s called Joe.

 

“Just… just calm down, it’s fine, it’s… why are you doing this?” Pete wanted to scream at Patrick, tell him to run and get out because, fuck, he wasn’t even wearing a vest. 

 

“THEY DO NOT DESERVE THIS! THEY DESERVE A FAMILY, ALL OF THEM!!!” This was sick, it was twisted, what was this man playing at? Who did he think he was?

 

“All of them? Which all? Come on, it’s okay, calm down, which all?” Pete hazarded a glance at Josie, still crying. Of course she was, she was terrified. 

 

“All of them, all four of them, they don’t deserve this, death is better than this, it’s better than coming home t-”

 

“Wait, four?” Pete pitched in. “What four?”

  
  
  
  
  


Pete spent the day staring at spreadsheets and mind maps. Their little ritual killing theory seemed the most plausible answer, however, it hadn’t brought them much closer to their killer so far. Joe was playing darts, Andy was scanning and re-scanning both files, Ray and Frank were out with Saporta and Butch was — as always — drinking whisky in the back. Pete was losing his mind, or rather, struggling to control it. There was something uncomfortable about the way it kept drifting back to Patrick, back to  _ Patrick’ll know what to do, Patrick will work stuff out, Patrick will have the answers,  _ not just because of how independent that made him feel but… well… 

 

He walked over to their pinboard and cocked his head at the map spread out across it. Both sites — two old churches — were marked in blue, the place where Tanya’s ring had been found was red. Pete liked to think there was some logic here, but if that was so, he wasn’t the man to figure it out. Maybe Patrick would.

 

Speak of the devil… 

 

“What’ve you got?” Pete would always deny the way his stomach started doing somersaults when the journalist winked at him.

 

“What makes you think I got anything?” He slumped down in a chair next to the pinboard.

 

“Well, that smirk is quite the giveaway, I would say, but that’s just, like, my personal judgement.” 

 

“Damn, that predictable, am I?”

 

“Kinda…”

 

“OH, JUST BANG ALREADY!” Pete was glad Patrick had already learned to ignore Trohman. 

 

“So, thing is, Tanya was going out with this dude, right, like… we’re talking like  _ days _ before, here, yeah? So, like, she met him through, like this dating site? Apparently? And I checked it out, right? Just casually or whatever, I checked it out and I searched Dinah and…”

 

Honestly? Pete had no idea what Patrick was saying, too enthralled by sparkling blue eyes, rosy-red cheeks and a shit-eating grin twisting beautiful, full lips. It sounded somewhat intelligent, though, so hopefully somebody was listening.

  
  
  
  


“So?” Pete was packing his bag when Andy came wandering up and leaned against the desk pointedly. “So? So what? What, Andy?” Apparently he was expected to read minds or some shit, Andy just kept staring at him, eyebrows raised.

 

“Dude, I don’t have time…” 

 

“Are you two a thing?” Pete felt it appropriate to frown, no, actually, not frown, look at his friend in complete and utter confusion. 

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“You and Patrick, are you a thing? You look like a thing. Or you look like you want it to be a thing.” Pete was glad he didn’t blush easily, though he wasn’t sure why because there was absolutely  _ no _ reason for him to be blushing whatsoever. 

 

“No I don’t? He’s a dick, dude, he’ just… useful.”

 

“Mmh, you looked totally uninterested earlier, totally normal to eye-up guys trying to ruin your career.”

 

“I wasn’t  _ eyeing him up _ , I was  _ listening _ .” Andy’s eyebrows raised impossibly higher. 

 

“Listening.”

 

“Yes, listening! Got a problem?!”

 

“What did he say?”

 

“What?”

 

“What did he say?” Pete bit his lip. “Uh… he… one of them had been dating T-tanya! Dating! A guy!”

 

“Yes, good start, and the rest?” 

 

“I-I, uh, I… I he… he… I’m…” A heavy sigh left Andy’s lungs and he shook his head in defeat.

 

“Kid’s smart. Maybe if you listened you’d be able to tell. Managed to determine the two churches, it’s in the order in which the Saints appear in the bible. In case you were wondering. Night, Wentz,” he said almost in passing as he wandered out of the door.

 

Fuck, Patrick really was smart.

  
  
  
  
  


“Four, the four women, four of them, this is the fourth, are you… you don’t know, do you?” Pete glanced over at Patrick. He was white as a sheet. “Four women. Four. Four.”

 

“Why?” His voice was a whole lot less steady. “J-just tell me why?”

 

The guy shook his head manically, “no, no, no more questions, no more… no  more… questions, questions, no more, no, no no, NO!” He was hitting against his own head, frantically pacing. Josie was crying. Patrick was still standing in the direct firing line of a loaded gun. Pete felt sick.

 

Suddenly, he turned, brandishing that knife he’d been holding, the one Pete had almost forgotten about. The screams became unbearable. Pete was yelling something. Patrick was running towards the altar. The guy, the murderer, the complete and utter psycho turned around, gun raised, finger on the trigger, pointing right at him, right at his head and… no, no it was pointing at Patrick, still trying to get to him first, Pete wanted to cry out, tell him to  _ stop _ , but he couldn’t, his voice wasn’t working.

 

Gunshot. 

 

Dead silence.

 

“PATRICK!”

  
  
  
  
  


“Hey, HEY, Pete!” Why did his heart skip at the sound of the journalist’s voice? He paused, hand on the door of his car. Patrick was coming towards him in a half-jog that meant he had to hold onto his stupid little hat and made his stomach jiggle.

 

“Any chance I could be super super cheeky and ask for a ride home? I mean… I mean, you’re just a few blocks away, I figured maybe… only if it’s not a problem, obviously, I don’t want to be, like, a liability or anything and it’s y-” Pete sighed and gestured to the passenger side door. 

 

“Get in.” Patrick’s smile almost made it worthwhile. 

 

“You can just dump dumb me at yours, I’ll walk the last bit, it’s fine,” he rambled on as Pete pulled out of the car park, “oh hey, look, they’ve finally fixed the traffic light, awesome, I can cross the road without risking death.”

 

“Don’t you kinda risk death every time you cross the road?”

 

“Shut up, Wentz, I don’t need an existential crisis right now, thank you very much.” Something in Patrick’s tone made him smile. He couldn’t help it.

 

“So how did you figure the church thing out? Are you like… I mean… like super bible-y?” He was met with a scoff.

 

“I’m just… interested. In like… religious… stuff…” Pete threw him a sideways glance.

 

“You mean like… occult shit?”

 

“No, no, God, just your regular religious stuff y’know… like the fact that angels from the bible do not in any way look like winged humans. At all. Dude, I need to show you Zachariah some day, he’s whack…”

 

“So this is a hobby of yours?” Pete remarked, going by the unexpected excitement in Patrick’s voice.

 

“I… I, uh… I have weird obsessions, best not to… to… please don’t question it.” He seemed suddenly embarrassed… Pete felt kinda bad.

 

“No, no don’t uh… it’s not weird, I promise, it’s kinda… kinda cute.”  _ No, shit, not cute, you fucking idiot. _ Patrick smiled sheepishly. 

 

“Thanks.”

 

The rest of the ride was awkwardly silent until Pete’s Ford pulled up outside his block of flats. He wasn’t quite sure what to say. 

 

“Well, thanks for the ride!” Patrick chirped, the awkwardness forgotten almost as suddenly as it had arrived, “I’m fine from here.”

 

“Sure? I can drive you. It’s not far.” He didn’t want Patrick to be gone just yet.

 

“No, thanks, really, it’s fine. I appreciate it, though.”  _ Let it go, Pete, don’t seem too eager, come on, let it go just… _

 

“D’you wanna come in? Just for a moment, maybe we can… we can figure this out?” Something flickered in Patrick’s eyes, something dark, something promising… He bit his lip, the sight of a row of white teeth sinking into that soft flesh enough to drive Pete mad. 

 

“Sure.” His heart skipped. Just a conversation, he was just coming in to talk the case over. 

 

“Awesome, uh… uh follow me I guess.” Patrick fell silent in the elevator again, he stayed silent as Pete unlocked the front door of his flat.

 

“Make yourself at home, do you want a drink or-”

 

Before he could so much as think about how that sentence was going to end, Pete found himself crushed against the wall of his little hallway, fists curled into his collar and… and…

 

Patrick broke away from the kiss, breathing heavily and with that dangerous glint in his eyes. Pete wasn’t quite sure what to do.

 

“D’you wanna fuck me?” All Pete could do was stare at him dumb-struck.

 

“Pete, come on, yes or no, do you wanna fuck me?”

 

He swore he wasn’t in control when he replied “yes”, the word almost getting stuck in his throat. Patrick smirked.

 

“Good”, he purred before surging forwards again and re-attaching their lips, soft but desperate as their mouths worked against each other, Pete wasn’t quite sure if he could shove his tongue down Patrick’s throat but boy, he wanted to. And then, suddenly, it stopped again, Patrick just far enough away for their lips to brush when he spoke again, “I want you to fuck me.” Pete gulped.

 

“O-okay.. We… bedroom?” Patrick nodded and let Pete take his hand and lead him through his little flat until they were standing in the middle of the proportionately small bedroom, making out like horny teens. Patrick’s fingers were wrapped in Pete’s hair, dragging and tugging just the right side of too much, Pete had one hand on the back of Patrick’s neck and the other gently, almost testingly, squeezing his ass. Patrick shivered and let out a little moan and his hips shifted involuntarily in Pete’s grip. Fuck, he was hot. This was hot. What the fuck were they doing? 

 

Evidently not pleased with the slow pace, Patrick suddenly took a step back and whipped his shirt off in one, swift move. Pete’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of an expanse of pale, white skin stretching over a slender frame. Absent-mindedly, he copied Patrick and seconds later, his t-shirt met Patrick’s on the ground. Blue eyes were fixed on his torso, scanning over the tan skin and the dark tattoos. 

 

Pete couldn’t hold back anymore. He crashed their bodies together, re-claiming Patrick’s lips like he depended on the air from his lungs. Patrick was working his belt open, fiddling with the clasp until he could pull it out of the loops and turn to opening the stiff button on the washed-out dark jeans. He broke the kiss for a second to look down as he peeled down the trousers and boxers with them, letting Pete’s blood-dark, hard cock spring free so he could look at it hungrily. Pete bit down on his lip,  _ hard _ , when he met Patrick’s lust-filled gaze just for a second before the blond sank to his knees. He didn’t waste any time, thankfully, lapping at Pete’s cock, pressing open-mouthed kisses to it, all the while breathing heavily and quietly whimpering like he was starving for it. Pete stroked through his hair just as full, pink lips closed around the head and sucked gently. 

 

“ _ Fuck! _ ” Pete hissed, his grip in Patrick’s hair tightened. He wasn’t one to fuck around, sinking down after a few cautious bobs, licking along the underside before curling his tongue around it, pulling off, letting his thumb slide over Pete’s slit and repeating over and over and over again.

 

“Stop, stop, stop, stop, Patrick, stop, or I’m gonna… I wanna fuck you, please… please…” Patrick sat back on his heels.

 

“Yeah, yeah I want that, I…”

 

“Get on the bed?” it was a request more than a command, but Patrick didn’t hesitate one second before scrabbling onto the much too old mattress. He lay on his back, stark naked, having lost his trousers along the way, legs open and inviting so nothing was hidden from Pete, an elegant hand curled around a much too fucking big dick for such a little guy and  _ fuck _ , Pete thought he might pass out. He climbed onto the bed and between Patrick’s legs, pushing himself up so their faces were inches apart and his dick was pressing against his crotch. Not now. Not right now, he had to… had to do… something… what? Oh, yes. He fumbled in his bedside drawer as he kissed Patrick again and again and again until he found the lube and could coat his fingers with it generously - he didn’t want this to hurt, after all. 

 

Patrick gasped like a cliché when Pete breached his body, just with one very slick finger, carefully pumping it, trying to loosen him up before adding a second, scissoring them, flexing the tight ring of muscle, pressing and pushing until Patrick drew a shard breath and his thighs shuddered and Pete couldn’t help but smirk victoriously as he added a third for good measure.

 

“Okay, okay, okay, I’m ready,” he panted, “do it, please, fuck… fuck, fuck…” Pete kissed him again when he pulled away, wiping his fingers on his sheets before tearing open the foil wrapper on the condom. When he looked up from rolling it on, he saw Patrick’s bare ass stretched towards him. He drew a sharp breath and pushed himself up on his knees behind him, pressing honey-gold hands against pale white hips. Patrick whined when he pressed his cock against him.

 

“Please…”

 

It was almost too much when Pete finally pushed forward, letting himself sink into beautiful, beautiful, tight heat until it surrounded him completely. 

 

“Fuck, you feel so good, baby…” Patrick just whined beneath him.

 

“Move!” He snapped. Pete didn’t much appreciate being bossed around, but just this once, he decided to do what he was told. And move he did. Barely giving Patrick time to adjust, he began frantically slamming in and out of him until the only sound filling the room was the filthy slap of skin against skin and Patrick’s cries. He was beautifully vocal. 

 

“Fuck, more, Pete, more, please.” Pete literally couldn’t do  _ more _ , he couldn’t go any faster or deeper. 

 

“Christ can you… dude, I’m not a fucking toy, can you at least  _ try _ to hit my prostate?” The sudden glare he was shot took Pete by surprise, the harsh snapping tone nothing like the pathetic whining he’d been hearing seconds before when he’d figured he was doing everything right… fucking journalists, liars the lot.

 

And like he’d said, Pete didn’t like being told what to do. He grabbed a handful of Patrick’s hair, making him hiss, and put an arm around his chest so he could pull him up into a sitting position. 

 

“You move,” he hissed in Patrick’s ear from behind, hand closing around the blond’s throbbing cock. Patrick started rocking in his lap, carefully at first, trying to find the right angle. And then, suddenly, he picked up speed until he was practically bouncing on Pete’s dick, his back rubbing against Pete’s chest, his fingernails clawing into Pete’s thighs behind him. He was back to the high-pitched whimpers now as sweat began to drip from his body and as Pete began thrusting up in time to his movements. The hand still curled in Patrick’s hair yanked his head back until Pete could access his throat, biting and licking at it until Patrick’s body was shaking so much he couldn’t hold himself up.

 

“Let go, baby, come for me”, Pete whispered in his ear and that was it. Patrick crying out and clenching around him was all he needed to topple over the edge himself, burying himself deep inside of that godlike ass as his mouth fell open in a silent release. He rocked a few times, riding his high as they both tried to come back down, until Patrick managed to push himself up enough to let Pete slide out before flopping into the bed, chest rising and falling heavily as he stared blankly at the ceiling, sweat colouring his hair dark and staining the sheets. Pete just stared. He was beautiful, fuck.

 

“You’re beautiful”,  _ no, don’t SAY it, you dumb idiot! _ Patrick smiled sweetly. 

 

“Thanks”, he panted. 

 

Pete rid himself of the condom, wiped his come-streaked hand on his t-shirt and lay down next to his guest… guest… hm…

 

“So, uh… what else do you have to offer?” Patrick’s head turned so slowly it would be comical if his glare wasn’t so accusing. “I, uh, I mean trivia! Weird church trivia! Seriously, I swear, honest to god!” Shit, this was awkward, Pete really had meant church trivia… Patrick giggled lightly, his face twisted into a warm beam and Petes heart hurt so much he wanted to cry.

 

“Hmm… let me think. Did you know any catholic could perform an emergency baptism? So, like, if you were dying and… and wanted forgiveness from God for your earthly earlthy sins, I could baptise you here and now.” Pete chuckled. Then Pete frowned.

 

“You’re catholic?” Patrick nodded.

 

“Officially, yes.”

 

“Are you all…”

 

“Churchy?” it was his turn to chuckle now “Pete, I fuck guys, what do you think?” Pete shrugs.

 

“With that ass, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d struck a deal with the devil for it.” Patrick winked at him cheekily and turned onto his stomach so said body part was on full display. Pete couldn’t help but stroke over it, the soft, warm skin, the gentle curve… he looked up and saw Patrick was staring at him, so he leaned in and caught his lips in a kiss that was maybe a little too loving for the situation. Or maybe not. Who knew.

 

“Stay the night?” Pete muttered and by the way Patrick curled up below the duvet, he took that as a yes.

  
  
  
  


The clock read 2a.m. when Pete’s eyes opened. He frowned. Why was he awake at 2a.m.? It didn’t take him long to spot the reason for his restlessness, to his left, two eyes glinted in the low light seeping in through the thin curtains, fixed on the ceiling. 

 

“You okay?” Pete whispered and Patrick looked like he was about to have a heart attack. 

 

“Jesus, Pete!” he threw an arm over his eyes, stretching his torso beautifully and Pete just wanted to touch but he didn’t know if he was allowed so he restrained himself. Patrick sighed and resumed his staring match with the ceiling. 

 

“Patrick?” he pushed again, “you okay?” There was an elongated silence, one that made Pete feel he’d asked once too often, this wasn’t any of his business, he barely knew the guy, just…

 

“How do you live with it?” He sounded broken, vulnerable. Pete didn’t like it.

 

“How… how do I live with what, Patrick? What are you…”

 

“The stuff you see, how do you live with it?” Pete sighed heavily and carefully Put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. He wasn’t shrugged off. 

 

“Everytime I close my eyes, I see her. The girl, what was her name? Dianne?”

 

“Dinah,” Pete corrected softly.

 

“Yes. Dinah. I keep seeing her and I… just can’t…” He let out a long, shuddering breath that suggested he was trying to hold back the wave. Pete knew that feeling.

 

“How could somebody do that? How could… how…” Pete didn’t have any answers. He wished he did, he wished he knew why and who and when so that nobody else had to suffer, but he didn’t.

 

The bed rocked as Patrick shuffled onto his side, careful not to hog the blankets, so he was facing Pete.

 

“How do you cope?” 

 

Pete let out a heavy sigh. He could lie, could come up with some therapeutic bullshit, but none of it had ever worked. So he told the truth.

 

“I don’t.”

 

Patrick looked like he wanted to say something, like there was an unspoken thought on his tongue, but Pete’s phone rang and the moment was lost. There was only one reason Pete’s phone would ring at this time.

 

“Wentz?”

 

_ “There’s been another disappearance,”  _ Joe’s voice sounded through the speaker,  _ “another girl, Josie Marstein, left for a night out, never came back and guess what? She’s pregnant.” _

 

“Fuck!” Pete hissed a little too loudly. 

 

_ “Dude chill.” _

 

“Sorry. On our waywas. MY way, on my… I’m alone and on my way.” Patrick raised an eyebrow at him.

  
  
  
  
  


Everything froze. Pete’s breathing sounded through his skull, making him numb, making the world around him dull and distant. Seconds became minutes and hours and days, unbearable time in which he waited for something to happen, for a cry of pain, for a silent fall, his eyes fixed on the tiny, blond journalist, beautiful and bright, the colours of the moon through stained glass painting his face like he was art… 

 

And then he turned, frowning, and looked right at Pete, right at him, his still body, frozen in shock, and-

 

“Dude. Cut out the yelling.” 

 

Days became hours and minutes and seconds and Pete shook his head, aware of how raw his throat was, how much it hurt… 

 

“You’re… you’re okay? You’re okay?” He walked towards Patrick, pulled him into a tight hug. 

 

“Yeah, dude, I’m okay, chill…” 

 

“But… but the gun the… he…” 

 

“I TOLD you they were boning!” Joe’s triumphant voice sounded through the entire church.

  
  
  
  


“So, just a kid, huh? Scared, unloved kid…” Pete sighed heavily. Andy was right, he had just been a kid. Of course, he didn’t blame whichever officer had shot him, they’d been doing their job, they might have saved Josie’s life. But still. 22 years old. Just a kid.

 

“I fucking hate this job sometimes.” His colleague-slash-friend nodded in silent agreement. 

 

“Hey, Andy, he said four. He said there were four of them, he’d already killed three women. Can… can you check that out for me?” The shared look between them let him know Andy held the same suspicion he did, part of him hoped he was right, the other part… well, not so much.

 

“Sure, I’m onto it.”

 

“Thanks, man.” Pete said his goodbyes with a clap on the shoulder before leaving the precinct for the day. He’d done enough paperwork in the four days since the church to last seven lifetimes. 

 

He was going to head home, honestly, course already set, keys already in the lock, when he turned his attention back to the street. More accurately, the end of the street. Not far. A five-minute walk at most. He should probably check in on him…

 

It took him a while to find Patrick’s doorbell to his flat on the ninth floor. It was a pretty run-down building, shabby-not-chicchique, decidedly on the nastier end of Pete’s street. He thought for a moment nobody would buzz him in, but then the intercom crackled into ot life.

 

_ “Hello?” _

 

“Uh, uuh, hi, it’s Pete… I was just w-”

 

_ Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. _

 

At least the elevator worked.

 

Patrick was smiling kindly, messy hair covered by a tattered cap. He was wearing a plain t-shirt and a pair of jogging bottoms that looked much more attractive than they should.  

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hey, come on in.” Pete was waved inside and followed Patrick into the little living room with the little fireplace that was definitely more decorative than functional.

 

“I was wondering how you’ve been doing… are you okay?” He nodded.

 

“Yeah, I still… it’s still kinda weird, I… but I’m coping, it’s fine.” Pete smiled understandingly. 

 

“You did well. You probably saved that girl’s life, you know.” Patrick just shrugged like it was no big deal. “Couldn’t just do nothing, could I?” He noticed blue eyes flicking over to the mantelpiece involuntarily and risked a glance himself. He recognized the dark braids in the picture frames from photos in a case file. It stung stang a little. 

 

“Well, you did as you promised and gave a lot of families a lot of answers.” Patrick looked sad.

 

“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice a breath of wind. 

 

“Pete, I… he said four. Four women. Do you… do you know if…” He looked almost scared to ask. Pete got that. 

 

“Andy’s looking into it. If he… if he finds anything, do you want to know?” Patrick’s eyes fixed on the pictures. Pete’s followed. They were nice, they felt happy, Patrick smiling in every one, she was, too, in all but the one where she was pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

 

“I’m not sure… I thought I did, but… I don’t know anymore.” Pete nodded. He got it. Kinda.

 

“I miss her,” he said quietly and the sincere sadness broke Pete’s heart. He wasn’t quite sure how welcome a hug was, but he gave Patrick one, anyway, for his own sake as much as anything else. He wasn’t quite sure when they started kissing. Slowly and sweetly, none of the fire from a few nights ago. He stroked along Patrick’s back soothingly, felt hands in his hair and hot breath against his face. 

 

And then, it was gone, and he felt nothing but the hand around his wrist, slowly leading him through the apartment.

  
  
  


“Make it slow,” Patrick said in a hushed voice as Pete positioned himself over him, “I need to feel it.” Slowly, slowly he sunk down, taking Patrick in inch by gorgeous inch as fingernails left crescent moons on his hips. He stilled for a moment when their bodies met, looked up at Patrick, his mouth was opened slightly and he was breathing heavily.

 

“You’re fucking beautiful,” Pete muttered as he started rocking his hips.

 

“Kiss me,” Patrick breathed as he gripped his thighs. So Pete kissed him, slow and sweet as he continued rocking their hips together until Patrick was panting and he couldn’t hold back anymore. 

 

“Fuck,” he hissed as he desperately started fucking himself on Patrick’s dick, a hand around his own as he pushed towards his climax. Patrick, wonderful, vocal Patrick, was whining beneath him. 

 

“O-oh, oh….” he whimpered almost pathetically as his mouth dropped open wide and his eyes screwed up when he hit his orgasm. The mere sight of him coming apart was enough to send Pete over, too, and he hit his high, it washed over him like a riptide, dragging him in until he was lying on top of Patrick.

 

Beautiful, clever, kind little Patrick. Patrick with the golden hair and the ocean eyes. Patrick with the smile that could match the sun. Patrick who’d run at least two horrible stories about him in the last two weeks.

 

God, he hated him.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are rad, leave some love for platinumandpercocet, my tumblr is scmi-sweet, you know the drill


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